


Home Tonight

by drekadair



Series: Tales from the Folly [3]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Drunken Kissing, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 02:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9636062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drekadair/pseuds/drekadair
Summary: A little too much vodka leads Peter to do something he would never do sober. Follows the “Tales of the Folly” short in Night Witch. Starlingale.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed maybe a page, no more, and then spiraled into a four-page makeout session, so...
> 
> Remember to leave a review, if you're so inclined!
> 
> Title comes from Brood's song "Are You Home."

The wooden surface under my head was chilly against my skin and something wet pooled around my temple and soaked into my hair. My fingers and lips felt numb and my mind fuzzy, but I was pretty sure it wouldn't be a good idea to try and get up right now. So I stayed slumped over the table while every nerve in my body told me I should either jump up and _do something_ or else crawl off to a corner and stay there for a while.

The reason getting up was a bad idea, of course, was the Night Witch looming over me. I was acutely aware of the nearness of her, the rustle of her clothes as she moved.

“The Teutonic Knights, Napoleon, Hitler...” she hissed. “They all made the _same_ mistake you have.”

I knew Nightingale was just across the table from me, but I couldn't open my eyes to check on him. He wasn't moving, I could tell that much. Whether he was faking it like me or really unconscious, I couldn't know. I hoped he was faking it, because if this went south I didn't fancy my chances of taking her on my own.

“You think we can be tricked, or outmaneuvered,” Varvara continued, “But we know how to wait. How to endure.”

I heard her straighten and tried not to flinch. There was a clink and a liquid sound as she knocked back another shot of vodka. “And when your strength fails,” she said, and she was definitely slurring a bit now, “we will rise up to _bury_ you.”

More rustling, and the muffled, unsteady thump of high heels on carpet. Then silence.

Somewhere close by, Toby whined.

“Had she gone?” Nightingale murmured.

I risked opening my eyes. Warm light from the fireplace cast flickering colors through the empty and half-empty bottles scattered across the table. One of them had fallen over, and the little puddle of alcohol that had spilled from it was what my head was currently lying in. Toby had taken Varvara's place at the head of the table, but of the Night Witch herself there was no sign.

“That last bottle,” I said, “was definitely a mistake.”

We both lifted our heads and stared blearily at one another. I wasn't really drunk, you understand, but it was definitely a bit tricky to focus my eyes. I don't know how bad off Nightingale was, but if he was in the same state as me he was hiding it better.

“You have—” he gestured at his own temple.

I brought my hand to my face and my fingers came away covered in vodka.

“Here,” he said, and offered me one of his handkerchiefs.

I unfolded it—after Molly's ironed something, you don't just shake it out—and started mopping up my face. I said, “This was a horrible idea.”

“I believe this was your idea.”

“Yeah, but you agreed.”

“So I did.” He sounded wry. “I suspect I will regret that decision in the morning.”

“I can't believe I thought we could drink a Russian under the table,” I muttered.

“The odds were two-to-one,” Nightingale said kindly. “That should have counted for something.”

I finished wiping off my face and tried to hand his handkerchief back, but he waved it away. I rested my arms on the table, but of course that just put me in the puddle of vodka again. With a sigh I used the handkerchief to blot at my sleeves. “This was a complete waste of time.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Nightingale said, investigating one of bottles at his elbow. “We learned a few entertaining, if anatomically implausible, Russian jokes. And we managed to get ourselves rather drunk.”

He lifted one of bottles to his mouth and took a long drink. There was something strangely erotic about watching Nightingale—posh, refined Nightingale—swig booze straight from the bottle. The way he wrapped his lips around the mouth of the bottle didn't help, either. I tried not to stare at the line of his throat as he tilted back his head and swallowed. 

Getting into bed with my boss was probably the worst idea I'd had all night and remember, I'd already started a drinking game with a Russian witch.

Nightingale lowered the bottle and caught me watching him. Our eyes met and I looked away first. “I think the Comrade Major might have the right idea,” I said.

“What, world domination?”

I eyed him cautiously. Nightingale has an excellent sense of humor, but it's very dry and doesn't usually run to cracking jokes. I wondered if he was drunker than I thought. 

“No, that sounds exhausting,” I said. “I was thinking I'd call it a night.”

“A capital idea,” Nightingale said, pushing to his feet. “Better than the others you've had so far tonight.”

You have no idea, I thought, but didn't say out loud—barely.

I yawned and checked my watch as I started toward the door. “It's only two o'clock,” I said. “I can't believe I used to do this all night. I feel old.”

Nightingale laughed. “How do you think I feel? I may not be as old as I used to be, but I'm not as young, either.”

That was when I knew he was really drunk, because he never talks about the backwards-aging thing. Or says anything about himself, really. As if I needed more evidence, he stumbled a little over absolutely nothing. I reached out to steady him, and that was how we wound up standing together, my hand on his elbow, our faces a lot closer than was appropriate for a constable and his inspector.

I was at that happy stage of intoxication where you know you're drunk and you know it's affecting your decisions but you think that's for the best even though you realize you would never do whatever it is you're about to do sober and will probably regret it in the morning. Which explains why I leaned forward and kissed Nightingale on the lips.

For a moment he just stood there and I was afraid I had horribly misjudged his sexual orientation. Then his hand slipped around the back of my neck, pulling me closer. He kissed me back the same way he did everything else, with an intensity and focus that left me breathless. His other hand slipped under my suit jacket and rested lightly against my hip, just above my belt. The heat of his fingers burned through the light material of my shirt.

We broke apart, both breathing hard, though he didn't let go of me and I was still gripping his elbow. Our faces were almost touching.

“Peter,” Nightingale said. I liked the way he said my name, low and husky. “Peter, we can't do this.”

That wasn't what I wanted to hear. I pulled back a little so I could see his face. His pupils were wide and dark in the dim light. His eyes, I noticed, were pure gray, with hardly any blue in them at all.

“What are you saying?”

“I am your superior officer and your master, not to mention almost a hundred years your senior. It would be inappropriate for us to pursue a... more intimate relationship.” But as he said it he was combing his fingers through the short hair at the nape of my neck, so I wasn't convinced.

“Those rules were put into place to prevent favoritism and coercion,” I said. “I'm the only subordinate you've got and I'm sure not being coerced. And past a certain point I don't think the age difference even matters anymore.” I frowned. “I'm pretty sure there's an equation for determining the maximum socially acceptable difference. Of course, that assumes neither party is immortal or aging backward or—”

I stopped talking when Nightingale kissed me again. It was deeper this time, with tongue and some teeth. He seemed to like a little nipping, and that gave me an idea. I got his tie loosened and the first couple of buttons on his shirt undone, and then started working my way down his jaw. It had been a long time since I kissed a guy, and the barely-there roughness of stubble felt novel and exciting under my lips. He sighed and tilted back his head when I reached his neck, giving me better access, and then I bit down at the base of his throat.

I did a good job of it, too, catching a little skin between my teeth and rolling it back and forth to make a really nice bruise that would last for days. Nightingale's sigh turned into a gasp, then a moan. His hand tightened around the back of the neck and the next thing I knew I was pressed up against the wall beside the door. His thigh slid between my legs and I was left with no doubt whatsoever about the effect I was having on him.

So of course it was right then, just as things were getting really interesting, that he said, “Stop.”

I clutched at his hips to keep him close to me. “You've got to be kidding me.” His body felt lean and strong and wonderful against mine, and though I really wanted to get him out of his clothes his suit was really turning me on for some reason.

He leaned his forehead against mine and ran his thumb back and forth along my jaw. He was breathing hard and his voice was hoarse but uncompromising. “We cannot do this, Peter.” When I would have protested, he pressed one finger against my lips. “At the least, we cannot do this while we are both intoxicated. I would not want... either of us to do anything we might regret in the morning.”

I don't think I can describe how much self-control it took not to suck his finger into my mouth. I could see his point, but between the vodka and my own arousal it wasn't easy to think clearly. “I don't think I'll regret this in the morning,” I said honestly.

“Perhaps not,” Nightingale said. “Nonetheless.”

He brushed a light, almost chaste kiss across my lips and then, proving his self-control was much, much better than my own, he walked away. Just walked away, like he was completely unaffected by the raging boner I absolutely knew he had. In the doorway he paused and said, “Goodnight, Peter.”

His tie was half-undone and I could see the vivid mark I had made against the pale skin of his throat. “Goodnight,” I said, and because even drunk I didn't quite dare to call him Thomas, “Inspector.”

I stayed leaning against the wall for a long time after he'd gone, trying to pull myself together and slowly sobering up. Part of me wanted to follow Nightingale up to his room and try again. Part of me wondered if I really would have regretted it in the morning. Part of me wondered if I would regret it, anyway. I guessed only the morning would tell.

But of course in the morning Nightingale told me about the missing girls and I left for Herefordshire, leaving neither of us any opportunity to figure out what, if anything, we regretted. Part of me wondered if Nightingale sent me away on purpose. Part of me wondered if I was grateful to him for it.


End file.
